


Drink You In

by FinnsKeeper



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Aziraphale's Bio Family is Terrible, Character asks for an angel shot, Found Family, Happy Ending, Implied homophobia, M/M, Mentions of alcohol, Miscommunication, No Sexual Violence, Protective Aziraphale (Good Omens), Very Brief Mention of Conversion Camp, mild violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-18
Updated: 2020-01-15
Packaged: 2021-02-26 04:01:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 20,021
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21843361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FinnsKeeper/pseuds/FinnsKeeper
Summary: Aziraphale Fell owns a rather popular bar in Soho London. His life is relatively calm and predictable until he meets Anthony Crowley one fateful night. When a first date goes wrong, Aziraphale has to take measures to protect his newest patron. Anthony's gratitude quickly morphs into something deeper, and Aziraphale has to battle his own demons to determine if those feelings are true or just a product of his impromptu rescue.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 151
Kudos: 292





	1. Chapter 1

Saturday nights were always busy at Fell’s. The long, narrow pub was nearly packed wall to wall with university students unwinding after a long week of classes, twenty- and thirty-somethings looking to escape the daily grind of their jobs, as well as the eclectic crowd that London Soho attracted. Aziraphale Zacharias Fell was right where he loved to be—behind the bar fulfilling every request shouted over the thumping music. A few of his regulars offered him quick snippets of conversation in between the hectic flurry of orders, and despite his determined movements and quick turnaround, he always made sure to give each of them as much time as he could. They often rewarded his regard with generous tips, and he returned their generosity with his warmest smile and his best drinks.

A trickle of sweat rolled down his back and he stopped for a moment in front of the large fan tucked beneath the bar. He crooked one finger beneath the starch white collar and black bowtie at his neck, lamenting to himself on the rather formal dress code he insisted upon for his staff. It was about professionalism, he had told them. No one had been prepared for the unseasonably warm summer, and the central air just couldn’t seem to keep up with the sweltering early-August temperatures. 

The band finished their second set of the night, prompting a rush to the bar for refills. Patrons crowded shoulder to shoulder, and for several minutes it was an onslaught of orders being hastily answered by Aziraphale and his two best bartenders. They were old hands at this, their work quick and efficient as they handed over drinks and took payments. After one pass, Aziraphale found himself at the end of the bar farthest from the door. A lithe man with short, upswept auburn hair was pressed into the space just next to the wall, his face obscured partially behind pale blue tinted lenses. It was hard to tell in the dim light, but Aziraphale thought there was something odd about the man’s eyes. Brushing off his own pointless musings, he leaned in.

“What can I get you?”

“Scotch, neat,” he shouted. “And a Jack and Coke for my date.” He gestured behind him rather vaguely, but Aziraphale looked anyway. 

“Of course.” He fulfilled the request and set the drinks on the counter, reciting the price from memory. “Are you enjoying yourself?” he asked amicably as the man fished a silver card from his pocket.

“Don’t know yet,” the man drawled. “I just met him for the first time in person.”

So it was one of those online date things that were becoming more and more prevalent. Aziraphale didn’t ascribe to the method himself; there was nothing quite like seeing someone from across the room and feeling the sparks fly, of summoning the courage to put it all on the line and cultivate a relationship the old-fashioned way. It was an archaic mode of thinking (one that his staff teased him about endlessly) but he couldn’t help it. He was a romantic at heart and, though none of his previous relationships had progressed into anything terribly serious, he still held out hope that the right person was out there somewhere.

He started the man’s tab, checking the name on the card before handing it back. “Well, Mr. Crowley,” he smiled warmly, “I hope it all works out for you.”

He raised both glasses in a quick toast. “Me, too.”

The night marched on in a never-ending stream of drink orders, tipsy grins and thumping music. As it neared midnight, things began to slow down enough that he could send Amy home early to tend to her sick daughter. She thanked him profusely, refused his offer to share the rest of the night’s tips with her, and dashed away. Aziraphale and Tom handled the continuous flood of orders well enough, and as the clock ticked over to one in the morning, the time between requests increased enough to give them short breaks.

It was during one of these lulls that Aziraphale saw Mr. Crowley again. He was back in his spot against the far wall, though there was something about the set of his shoulders that made old instincts flare up deep in Aziraphale’s chest. He moved over quickly with a friendly smile and recited his usual greeting. He’d made just about every drink on their menu tonight and then some, but the order that came out of the other man’s mouth made his blood freeze.

“I...I was wondering if...if you guys have a-an angel shot?”

It was the first time he’d heard that particular request, for which Aziraphale was immensely grateful. That particular order wasn’t a drink, but a code that was, unfortunately, quite common around the London bar scene. It was designed to let staff know that the person was experiencing an unpleasant situation with whomever they were with and needed help escaping it. Like other establishments all over the city, his bar policy stated quite clearly that anyone who ordered an angel shot or asked to speak to “Angela” was assisted immediately and without question. He was moving to the tiny button set into the underside of the bar instantly, and even as he pressed it twice he glanced toward the door. 

“Of course,” he rushed. Then, much quieter, he added, “Is he nearby?”

“Went to the bathroom.”

“Right.” He lifted the corner of the bar top back to create a small path out, then lowered it back behind him. “Come.” He gestured for the man to follow him away from the bathrooms and toward the small door tucked behind the stage. They were immediately flanked by two burly fellows in black shirts and earpieces, floormen sent by Marvin, who took up a position in front of the door as Aziraphale and his charge went inside.

The small office was nothing to look at, a tiny space cramped with a cluttered desk, a tall filing cabinet with a fist-sized dent in the side, and an old patterned couch with an equally worn afghan blanket draped over the back. He offered the sofa to the man—Anthony, if he remembered the tab correctly—and leaned against the desk.

“You’re safe here. Would you like me to escort you to your car?”

Anthony’s hands were shaking, though he quickly curled them into fists as he sank back into the cushions. “Didn’t drive here,” he answered.

“I’ll call you a taxi, then.” He turned and plucked the receiver from the antique style phone on the desk. There was a more modern wireless one out behind the bar, but Aziraphale was something of an old soul and he preferred the heft of the receiver in his hand whenever he was working. It took him only a few seconds to order a car, making sure to give the driver precise instructions to pull up behind the building rather than in the front. That done, he returned his attention to the man on the sofa.

“Did he hurt you?”

Anthony shook his head quickly. “I’m probably being ridiculous.”

“No,” Aziraphale cut him off sharply. “In these situations, I find it’s best to trust your instincts. If you didn’t feel safe with him, then you’ve done the right thing.”

“He’ll be mad.”

“Let him be mad. The only thing that matters is your safety.” There was something about the way Anthony was hunched over on himself, hands tucked in his lap, that triggered his primal urge to defend. Aziraphale had never had to do this before, thank the Lord, and so the sudden rush of protectiveness that washed over him was unsettling. _He’s my customer_ , Aziraphale told himself. _It’s my responsibility to see to his well being._

“Thank you,” Anthony sighed into the silence. 

Aziraphale tutted softly. “No need to thank me, dear boy. Can I get you a glass of water?” He’d have to go back out to the bar to do so, but he thought perhaps Anthony could use a few moments alone to compose himself. When the man nodded, Aziraphale straightened and promised to be right back.

It took a bit longer than he’d intended, given the commotion going on outside. It seemed that Anthony’s date hadn’t appreciated his sudden disappearance and the dark-haired brute was being physically escorted to the exit. Aziraphale had to take a detour to help get him outside, and he took a small amount of satisfaction in the surprise on the taller man’s face when the unassuming bar owner gripped his arm in a vice-like hold and bodily shoved him out the door despite being more than half a head shorter. By the time he made it back to the office, it was nearly ten minutes since he’d left.

“I’m sorry for leaving you on your own,” Aziraphale apologized as he passed the water over. “Has the phone rung?”

Anthony took a large gulp then dropped his eyes. “No.”

Aziraphale could sense something was wrong, though he didn’t pry. The poor lad had been through enough tonight without Aziraphale peppering him with incessant questions. “Your taxi should be here any minute.” 

“Okay.”

Unwilling to leave him alone again, but also unwilling to force his company on the man, Aziraphale moved to sit in the black office chair behind the desk. Movement out of the corner of his eye drew his attention, and he glanced up sharply at the array of screens on the wall. Damn. No doubt Anthony had witnessed the entire debacle on the security cameras, including Aziraphale’s own rather overzealous treatment of his date. Did he object to the violence itself or was his discomfort due to some odd attachment to the man? It certainly wouldn’t be the first time Aziraphale had witnessed someone stick up for their partner, even after some truly despicable behavior. But then again, his mind countered, Anthony wouldn’t have utilized the angel shot to begin with if he had planned on staying with him. At least, he _hoped_ not.

The sharp trill of the phone startled him, and he jumped in his seat. “Fell’s,“ he answered automatically.

“I’m out back,” came a woman’s voice. Aziraphale hadn’t specifically requested a woman driver, but obviously the company had understood his odd request to arrive out back and made assumptions. He made a mental note to ask the customer for a preference next time. _Let’s hope there never is a next time_ , he amended silently. But there was nothing for it now, and he hoped Anthony was okay with it.

“We’ll be right there.” He replaced the receiver on the metal cradle and stood. “Your taxi is here.”

Anthony set his half-empty glass on the scuffed wooden table next to the sofa and levered himself up to his feet. His posture screamed his embarrassment, though he summoned enough courage to look Aziraphale in the eye.

“Thanks.” He shoved his hands into his pockets and followed the other man to the thick door set snugly between two bookshelves. 

“Think nothing of it,” he pushed the door open and glanced down the alley as a precaution. He had seen Anthony’s date get in his car and leave, but it never hurt to be cautious. He opened the rear door of the cab and stepped back. 

Anthony paused before getting in, his bright eyes wide and worried behind his tinted glasses. In the harsh fluorescent light of the alley, Aziraphale saw that his earlier assessment of the man’s eyes had been right. He couldn’t quite tell their color behind the blue lenses, but each of his pupils was slightly elongated at the bottom, as though someone had dragged a toothpick through a bead of black paint. They were unlike anything he’d ever seen before, and for a moment he was struck by the intensity in his stare. Then Anthony cleared his throat, thanked him again, and slipped into the cab.

Aziraphale heard him mumble the first part of his address, cut off by the sharp sound of the car door as it closed firmly. He stood like a sentinel as the cab rolled forward, then turned and disappeared out of the alley, taking Anthony and his extraordinary gaze with it.


	2. Chapter 2

Days stretched into weeks, and though Aziraphale thought of him often, Anthony did not return. At first, his own penchant for over worrying made him imagine the worst had happened and he checked the papers every day for any mention of a horrific attack. None appeared, and he gradually relaxed in relief. It was far more likely that Anthony just felt too embarrassed to return to the bar. He couldn’t fault the man for it, but Aziraphale was surprised at the pang of disappointment whenever his eye caught a shock of red hair and turned to find someone other than the tall, lanky man who had come to occupy his thoughts. 

“You alright, boss?” Tom was working the bar with him that afternoon, and it was slow enough that Aziraphale spent most of the time taking inventory rather than serving drinks. More than once he’d caught himself recounting something or losing track and having to start over, and the quiet curse that had escaped his lips had apparently been louder than he’d intended.

“Yes, of course, Thomas,” he shook his head. “Just taking inventory.”

“Didn’t you do that two days ago?”

 _Had he?_ He supposed he must have. It was Wednesday after all, and Monday was often the best day to check his stores and restock anything that was low. Aziraphale stood from where he was crouched in front of the taps and stretched his back.

“I suppose I did. Forgive me,” he set his pen and clipboard on the bar top, “I’ve been terribly distracted recently.”

“We’ve noticed,” Tom pitched his voice lower to keep it from carrying to the two men conversing quietly over their drinks at the other end of the bar. “Everything okay?”

“Yes, yes, of course,” Aziraphale waved him off. “I’ll just be in the office if you need me.” He left Tom to handle things and retreated to his office, shutting the door behind him with a loud click. “You’re being ridiculous,” he chastised himself. 

He hated busy work, and there really wasn’t anything to do since his ledger was up to date and inventory had been done. Out of options, he stalked over to the bookshelves and pulled a thick tome from the middle. It had been a gift from a dear friend at university, a leather-bound copy of Shakespeare’s best works. He never tired of reading the plays that had become some of the most well-known pieces of literature in the modern age. He settled down onto the sofa with the familiar weight of the book in his hands, tucked the afghan over his legs and opened the cover.

He was so engrossed in the plight of the Prince of Denmark that he didn’t notice the knock at first. When it came again, this time a touch more insistent, he jumped slightly and closed the book over his finger to hold his place. “Yes?”

Tom’s head peeked through the door as it opened a crack. “Someone here for you, boss.” Beyond him, Aziraphale could hear that the bar was far busier than it had been before, and he checked the clock in dismay. Sure enough, some hours had passed since he’d left Tom to mind things and the evening crowd had already begun to trickle in.

“Of course.” He stood up and returned the book to its place reverently, letting his fingers trace the worn spine for a moment before turning to the door. His hands tugged his beige sweater vest down smartly before raising to check the collar of the pale blue oxford beneath. He’d relaxed his weekday dress code guidelines a bit, and this morning he’d eschewed his normal shirt, waistcoat and tie for a more casual look. Still, it wouldn’t do to meet a customer looking less than his best, and he checked his reflection in the small round mirror by the door before stepping out into the bar.

Anthony stood near the door looking much less worn down than the last time he’d seen him. He still wore dark clothing, but his tight slacks and silk shirt had been replaced with skinny jeans and a black form fitting t-shirt. He still wore the same pale blue lenses, perched halfway down his long nose. His hair wasn’t quite as coiffed and full of product, but the rather haphazard sweep of it was endearing enough against his sharp features. His lips kicked up in an easy grin as he caught sight of Aziraphale, and with a friendly wave to Tom behind the bar he sauntered over, his long legs swaying from the hip with each step. 

“Hi,” he greeted easily. “I just...wanted to stop by and say thanks again.” 

Aziraphale noted that he looked much better without the spectre of apprehension that had terrorized him that night, though there was still something about the way his eyes kept glancing over the room that put the bar owner’s back up. The crowd was much thinner than it was on a weekend, but there were still enough people around that Tom was likely pushing himself to keep up with the orders. Aziraphale chided himself mentally and made a note to give the poor man a long break soon. 

Realizing Anthony was still standing in front of him waiting for a reply, he smiled. “Of course. I’m just glad I could help.” He turned toward the bar and swept his hand out. “Can I get you something? First drink is on me.” 

He relieved Tom at the bar and ordered him to take a full hour break instead of the thirty minutes he was normally allotted. Tom frowned but promised not to come back until seven. Aziraphale took his place and refilled a few drinks while Anthony made his selection. He had once again chosen to sit at the far end of the bar, his back to the wall and his eyes toward the door. It took Aziraphale a few moments to understand what he was doing, and as he placed the man’s chosen drink on a napkin in front of him he leaned in to keep their conversation private.

“You don’t have to worry,” he murmured. “I’ve given his picture to all of my staff. He isn’t allowed in. And if he returns, the police will be notified.”

That surprised Anthony, and he straightened sharply in his seat. “Oh, uh, that’s…” His glasses had slipped further down his nose, and now that he was closer Aziraphale could finally see the deep amber color of his eyes. Just like the first time, Aziraphale was struck by how vivid and utterly unique they were and he found himself unable to look away. Anthony caught him staring and hastily shoved the wire frames back up onto the bridge of his nose as though embarrassed.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Aziraphale shook his head and stepped back. “I know it’s terribly rude of me to stare, it’s just...I’ve never seen eyes like yours. Are they contacts?”

Anthony sniffed, curled his long fingers around the glass in front of him and dropped his gaze to the liquid swirling inside. “No, it’s, uh...I was born with them.” 

“Well, I think they’re quite remarkable.” Aziraphale surprised himself with how forward he was being, and he grew flustered. “I should see to the other customers. Let me know if you’d like anything else.”

Anthony stayed until the bar closed at eleven. Aziraphale checked on him several times throughout the night, but he seemed content enough to sip on his scotch and scroll through his phone. When Tom announced last call, there was a flurry of orders that drove Aziraphale away from the end of the bar. By the time he returned Anthony was gone, leaving only an empty glass and a signed receipt in his place. Aziraphale swiped them both into his hands, smiling at the generous gratuity added to the tab. For half a second he thought about going outside to make sure Anthony had made it to his car safely, but he’d only taken a single step before the absurdity of it hit him.

 _Stop it_ , he admonished himself sharply. It was ridiculously presumptuous of him, and not at all professional for him to be so preoccupied with a single customer. He had never been so obsessively concerned for any of his other patrons before, and he was certain Anthony wouldn’t appreciate his overbearing attitude. He turned back to the bar and began wiping down the veneer surface with a damp rag as Tom closed out the registers, pushing all thoughts of the man with honey-gold eyes from his mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story was partially inspired by Caedmon's [Method Acting](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20936849/chapters/49775666). A wonderful piece that brings a smile to my face no matter how many times I read it. If you haven't yet, please do yourself a favor and check it out.
> 
> I just wanted to take a moment and thank everyone who read the first chapter and left kudos or reviews. It means a lot to me as a writer to know that people are enjoying this story. This chapter is a bit more like filler, but I promise the rest of the story is a bit better paced and chock full of story, as well as more BAMF Aziraphale. Look for the next installment on Christmas Day!


	3. Chapter 3

Anthony returned each of the following four Saturdays, always alone and looking just as devilishly handsome as he had the first night. He made himself at home at the bar, in what Aziraphale was coming to think of as _his_ seat, and spent the evenings engaging in some rather shameless (albeit completely harmless) flirting with Amy and Tom in equal measure. Aziraphale was glad to see his spirits so high, and a small part of him took pride in the fact that he felt safe enough to come back. Of course, he told himself, it was likely due to the ban that kept his former date from entering the premises. The horrible man hadn’t tried to return, but the staff at the door were diligent in their duty; Aziraphale trusted that they wouldn’t allow him in should he try.

Aziraphale took a break around ten, slipping away to the bathroom and back again during a lull in orders only to find no one had missed him. Tom and Amy promised they could handle things, and so he didn’t feel too guilty about retreating to his office for a moment of quiet in the midst of the chaos that always permeated the bar on Saturday nights. It wasn’t that he didn’t appreciate the crowd—he had bills to pay, after all—but sometimes the press of bodies and cacophony of noise grew too much for him and he felt like crawling out of his own skin. 

He took a few moments to sift through the day’s post, discarding the junk and tossing the bills into his inbox to be dealt with later. The last piece at the bottom of the pile was a plain white envelope, only notable for its simplicity. He turned it over and sucked in a sharp breath at the sight of his name scrawled on the front in elegant black script. There was no return address, but he didn’t need it to identify the letter’s origins. Flashes of memory assaulted him for several moments, harsh words disguised in dulcet tones, smiles that hid the true faces of the people who should have cared for him the most. 

The envelope fell from his fingers and clattered onto the desk. He had no need to open it; he knew exactly what it would say. No doubt it held the same old rhetoric as before, how he was “a terrible disappointment to the family.” His jaw clenched tight as he inhaled slowly through his nose. 

_Don’t even think about them._

He stepped away from the desk, his lip curling slightly. He needed to distract himself. The muffled thumping coming through the door heralded the start of the band’s second set. It also meant that he needed to get back out there. He winced at the blaring guitar solo that pierced his eardrums as he opened the door and stepped out of the office. He gently elbowed his way to the bar and almost made it back before a large man stumbled drunkenly into him. The brute turned and sneered down at him, revealing a row of crooked yellow teeth.

“Watch it, little man!” 

Aziraphale straightened and raised his voice. “I suggest, sir, that you grab a glass of water to cool down.”

The dry laugh that passed his lips was barely loud enough to be heard over the drum solo. “You better just back off, mate.” He punctuated his warning with a sharp jab of his finger. Aziraphale allowed it to push him backward ever so slightly, just enough to put a few feet of space between them.

“My dear fellow,” Aziraphale countered sharply, letting a bit of his earlier irritation seep into his tone, “you really should turn around and get back to your friends. If not, I will have you removed.”

“Removed?” He laughed again, a harsh bark that reeked of alcohol. “Why don’t _you_ turn around and I won’t have to bloody my knuckles on your face.”

The threat was enough to snap Aziraphale’s tenuously held control. His hand shot out as quick as lightning and seized a fistful of the man’s patterned silk shirt. With a mighty shove he pushed the larger man through the crowd toward the door. Meaty arms pinwheeled comically as he was forced backwards, flailing so much that it was a miracle he didn’t hit any other patrons. By the time they reached the front door, they’d attracted quite a bit of attention. Luckily his floor supervisor had seen him coming and took the drunken man from Aziraphale’s grasp just as soon as he was within arm's reach.

“I’ll see him out, boss.” 

Aziraphale flexed his fingers quickly and tugged on his waistcoat as he stepped back. “Thank you, Marvin.” He turned back, unable to miss the way a few people scrambled out of his path. He gave them his warmest smile and checked their drink levels before sliding back to his place behind the bar. 

“Everything good, boss?” Tom asked.

“Just fine, Thomas. Get back to work.” His tone was short and abrupt, but unfortunately could do nothing to temper it. The arrival of the letter and the rather unfortunate encounter with the drunk had combined to eradicate any good cheer he’d mustered before. Thomas, at least, seemed to understand and went back to his customers without another word.

“Alright?”

Anthony’s voice cut through the din and Aziraphale turned sharply. “Fine,” he returned curtly. Then, he softened. “Forgive me, this night has been trying.”

“Anything I can help with?”

“No, no,” Aziraphale shook his head, unwilling to burden his customer with his troubles. “It’s fine. How is your drink?”

The night wore on much the same as the last four weekends, with Anthony sitting steadfastly in his seat from the moment he arrived until a few minutes before close. Aziraphale checked on him several times, refilled his glass whenever it was too low, and held a rather disjointed conversation between taking care of the other customers. By the time Tom yelled for last call, Aziraphale felt much better than he had before.

“Why don’t you head home, boss?” Tom appeared behind him as the last of the patrons filtered out the door. 

Aziraphale turned. “Oh, I couldn’t,” he protested. “There is so much to do.”

“Nothing that can’t wait until tomorrow. Go get some rest. Amy and I can close up.”

He had to admit the thought was an appealing one. He could think of nothing better than going home and curling up on his sofa with a cup of tea and a good book. “Alright,” he relented. “But call me when you’re leaving.”

He stopped by his office to grab his jacket, pointedly ignoring the stark white envelope lying face down on his desk. He fished his keys from his pocket and stepped out the back door, turning to the right toward the parking lot where his faithful Mini was waiting. He hummed quietly to himself, wincing at the way his ears always rang after spending so long around the near-deafening music of his Saturday night entertainment. 

He rounded the corner and set off toward the back of the lot where he usually parked. There were several cars still scattered around, no doubt patrons who had imbibed too much and called for a cab or hitched a ride with a friend. Aziraphale never minded the overnight stays; it meant that his customers made plans to get home safely. He was passing the third row when a dull metallic thump of a hand against a car alerted him to someone’s presence.

“...hurt my feelings, pet. We were having such a good time.”

The thinly veiled malice in the words set Aziraphale’s teeth on edge, and he moved to intervene even before he realized he’d altered course. If one of his customers was being harassed in his parking lot, then it was his responsibility to stop it. Three large shapes stood nearly shoulder to shoulder, blocking Aziraphale from seeing the poor soul they were terrorizing. Another memory threatened to surface, one that he did his best to stamp back down. Large shadows looming, disparaging looks hidden by deceptive smiles, words offered as advice that sounded far more like judgment. His heart twinged in sympathy for whomever these thugs were focused on. He cleared his throat pointedly and stood as tall as he could, drawing every ounce of his strength around him like armor as he spoke in a clear tone.

“Gentlemen, I believe we’re quite closed for the evening so you should be moving along smartly, if you please.” The three men shifted to face the newcomer, and Aziraphale finally got a look at their target. He was crumpled against the side of the car bonelessly but there was no mistaking the sweep of red hair or the long limbs folded protectively across his stomach.

“Anthony?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas to all of you. I hope your day is filled with festive cheer and warm tidings, whether you are celebrating with family, friends or a little bit of both.


	4. Chapter 4

Anthony was pressed against the side of a sleek, dark car. His eyes were wide behind his glasses, the silver frames tilted askew from an obvious altercation that had left a bruise blossoming on his cheek. He was terrified, and Aziraphale’s indignation erupted into full blown anger.

“If it isn’t the barkeep.” The brute in the center stepped forward enough for Aziraphale to make out his features in the streetlights. It was Luther Payne, the man who had accompanied Anthony almost two months ago, the one who was forever banned from entering Fell’s Pub. Anthony had identified him by name to Aziraphale’s staff on his third visit and Aziraphale had committed it to memory along with his face. He’d obviously been biding his time, waiting for the perfect moment to corner poor Anthony just after close. The thought of his newest regular at their mercy for any length of time ignited a surge of protective fury within him, and Aziraphale’s fists balled tightly at his side as he took a step forward.

“I will not warn you again,” he commanded. “Leave, and never return.”

“Or what?” It was clear to the three men that they had the advantage, and their matching grins were tinged with perverse anticipation at the idea of further violence. The two that flanked Luther moved forward in an attempt at intimidation, but Aziraphale would not be cowed. He fell back one step, allowing his weight to shift into the balls of his feet. Old instincts he’d thought long dormant rose again, and he could hear the blood rushing in his ears as every muscle tensed for a fight.

It came from the right first, a large meaty fist that would have taken out a few teeth if it connected. It didn’t. Aziraphale ducked and stepped in, driving his own fist into the man’s stomach in a vicious jab. He continued the movement, allowing his feet to carry him behind his attacker and away a couple of steps. As the first man crumpled and gasped for air the second lunged forward, hands outstretched to grab his shoulders. Aziraphale brought both of his hands up in front of him as if in prayer, then separated them in a quick movement that deflected his attacker’s arms outward. He stepped in quick as lightning and jammed his knee up into the other man’s groin, eliciting a yowl of pain. It was regretfully satisfying. 

The second man hit the ground just as the first was recovering from the stomach blow. Aziraphale whirled as soon as the heavy hand landed on his shoulder, his arm swinging up and over to trap the other in a dangerous joint lock as he drove his free hand into the man’s exposed throat. He felt more than heard the shoulder pop painfully as he wrenched upward, and when he released the man he fell in a heap to the pavement next to his friend.

The exchange had lasted seconds, and by the time Aziraphale turned back toward Anthony and Luther, the latter was stepping back with his hands outstretched.

“Listen, I-I’m sorry. Just don’t...don’t hurt me, I’m sorry.” He was stuttering dumbly, all traces of his earlier menace gone. Without the advantage of numbers, all of his bravado had fled. He was the worst kind of coward, and Aziraphale couldn’t help but take another menacing step forward just to watch him retreat. He wasn’t terribly proud of the satisfied thrill the other man’s fear brought him, and he forced himself to stop.

Aziraphale’s chest heaved from the combination of exertion and adrenaline. “Take your friends and leave,” he commanded. “If I see any of you anywhere near my establishment again, I will have you charged. _After_ I’m done with you, that is.” 

“O-o-of course.” Luther reached down and hauled both of his friends up, ignoring their agonized protests as they stumbled and limped back across the lot to their own car. Aziraphale waited until they were well away before turning back to make sure Anthony was alright.

“Oh!” 

He was still leaning against the car behind him, but his face had morphed from fright to awe. No doubt Anthony, like most, hadn’t thought him capable of such horrible brutality. Aziraphale frowned a bit and searched for the right words to explain himself. He was aware how contradictory those particular skills were in regards to the way he presented himself; he mostly did it on purpose, though not for the reasons most people believed. 

It was Anthony who finally broke the silence. “Thank you.” His voice quivered on the words, and all of Aziraphale’s awkwardness was immediately pushed aside as his supportive nature took over.

“Dear boy, are you alright?” He moved slowly, his hands outstretched to keep from frightening him further. 

“Huh? Oh, yeah, m’alright.” He straightened up quickly, though his hands were still clutching tightly at his sides. At Aziraphale’s pointed look he glanced down and sighed. “Really,” he promised, relaxing his arms, “they weren’t here long. You showed up just in time.” There was something about the too-easy slant of his smile that Aziraphale didn’t believe, but he remained silent. If Anthony said he was alright, then it wasn’t Aziraphale’s place to contradict him.

“If you’re sure.”

Anthony slipped his fingers into his small front pocket, fishing the simple keyring from within. “Yeah.” He turned to open the car door, but the keys fell from his hand and landed with a soft jingle on the pavement. His first attempt to retrieve them failed, and the second sent them skittering under the car. Finally he managed to hang on to them, but as he stood to unlock the door he couldn’t seem to insert the key into the keyhole. Aziraphale took another step closer and realized the poor man’s hands were shaking violently.

“Really, Anthony. You’re in no fit condition to drive. Come.” He beckoned for Anthony to follow with one arm, careful not to actually touch him. He had no idea how he would react to it after such an encounter and didn’t want to startle the poor man any further. 

Anthony stopped fumbling with the keys for a moment and glanced up. “What?”

“I’ll drive you home. You can come retrieve your car tomorrow.”

Anthony made a soft noise of protest. “That’s not really necessary.”

“I insist. Please?”

It took a few more seconds of careful coaxing, but at last Anthony relented and followed him to his car. Aziraphale opened the passenger door and stepped back as Anthony folded his long limbs into the Mini. It would have been a bit comical at any other time, but Aziraphale wisely kept his amusement to himself and shut the door firmly once he was situated inside.

The drive to Anthony’s flat passed mostly in silence, punctuated only by the quiet directions muttered by the man in his passenger seat. Aziraphale had hoped Anthony would relax a bit now that the threat was gone, but judging from the way he held himself rigidly and kept his eyes firmly out the side window, he was apparently still quite agitated. 

“That’s my building,” Anthony pointed down the street just a few seconds after their last turn. Aziraphale slowed gently to a stop and unlocked the doors. Anthony hesitated for a moment, then straightened. “Would you...do you want to come up for a drink? As a thank you?”

Aziraphale reeled from the unexpected question. Something deep within urged him to accept but his better angels prevailed, reminding him it would be quite inappropriate given the circumstances. Anthony was vulnerable right now, and Aziraphale would absolutely not take advantage of him. “It’s quite late,” he said in lieu of an outright no. “And I’m sure you would like to rest.”

Anthony deflated. “Right, yeah.” He tugged on the handle and opened the door wide enough for him to unfold his long legs. “Still, thanks again for coming to my rescue. That’s twice now.”

“It’s nothing, dear boy.”

“Not to me, it isn’t. You’re like my own personal guardian angel.” 

Aziraphale ignored the way his heart clenched at the phrase. He had no business reading more into those words; he was an entrepreneur and Anthony his patron. He had a natural tendency toward overprotectiveness—it’s what had made him so good at his former job—and it just wouldn’t do to indulge it too much. 

“As I said before, I’m just glad you’re safe. I take my customers’ well-being quite personally.” Aziraphale couldn’t understand why that answer would make Anthony frown, but it did. The barman was rushing on before he realized he’d even started talking again. “I have a late shift tomorrow,” he said hurriedly. “If you like, I could help you retrieve your vehicle before I go into work.”

Anthony’s frown softened just a bit, but it was enough to banish the heavy awkwardness that had permeated the space between them. “Sure, here.” He slipped a thin metal case from his back pocket and snapped it open. A thin white card slid from within, and Anthony offered it with a flat smile. “My mobile’s on there. Just ring whenever.”

He closed the door firmly, and Aziraphale waited patiently until he saw Anthony disappear into the building’s foyer. He stayed a few more minutes still, just in case, then turned around and drove home.


	5. Chapter 5

It was almost noon by the time Aziraphale got around to calling Anthony. After a hearty breakfast and a few chapters of _The Picture of Dorian Gray_ , he finally remembered the plain white business card tucked into his jacket pocket. He walked over to his coat rack and slipped his hand into the breast pocket to retrieve the card from within.

“Anthony J. Crowley,” he read aloud, “Consultant.” He realized with a start that he had no idea what Anthony did for a living. It was odd; usually that was one of the first things he learned about a customer. Conversations with bar patrons normally revolved around how terrible their work was and how much stress they were under, and Aziraphale was always ready with a sympathetic ear and a strong drink. But his talks with Anthony hadn’t been about work at all. They spoke mainly about their differing tastes in literature and music, what plays and concerts they’d each seen, and a bit about their respective schooling. Aziraphale knew that Anthony loved rock music, especially Queen and the Velvet...Something. He couldn’t really remember, but he did recall the way Anthony’s voice had been bright and worry-free as he spoke about his favorite songs and how much he wished he could have seen Freddie Mercury in concert. 

Aziraphale banished that thought as he dialed Anthony’s number. The man was no doubt grateful for his assistance, but anything else Aziraphale inferred from him was a result of the projections of a lonely man. He would need to be careful to keep their interactions strictly platonic lest he scare a loyal customer off for good. 

Anthony picked up on the second ring. “Hello?” He was breathing heavily, like he’d just finished exercising, and Aziraphale hoped he hadn’t interrupted anything.

“It’s me, Aziraphale, erm, Mr. Fell. From the bar.”

“Aziraphale?” Anthony’s voice was light and teasing, a sharp contrast from the thin, quiet muttering he had managed last night. 

Aziraphale winced at his own awkwardness and realized he’d never actually introduced himself properly. Even his name tag read “A. Fell,” and no one ever asked him what the “A” stood for, either calling him, “Sir,” or “Mr. Fell,” or—in the case of his staff—”Boss.”

“Yes, well, I was calling to see if you wanted to go get your car. If you’re not busy at the moment, that is.”

“No, not busy,” Anthony answered. “I was actually just trying to figure out what to do for lunch. Don’t suppose I could persuade you to join me? I’d like to pay you back for everything you’ve done.”

“As I keep telling you, it was—”

“Nothing, yes I know. Except that it isn’t. I know you would do the same for anyone, but even you have to admit that saving someone twice in less than two months is at least cause for a thank you lunch?”

Aziraphale was happy enough to hear the jovial warmth in Anthony’s tone that he had to agree. “Alright, lunch. I’ll be at yours in half an hour.”

He made it in twenty minutes and forced himself to remain in his car for another five before walking up to the building. An array of buttons was set into the wall next to the door, and Aziraphale searched the list of names with one finger.

“McDonald, Hardy, Smith, Carlisle, ah,” he tapped the tiny nameplate twice, “Crowley, A.J. Number 43.” He pressed the button firmly and waited for the answer.

“Yes?” Anthony’s voice floated out of the tiny speaker.

“It’s me.”

“Be right down.” 

Aziraphale waited awkwardly on the pavement for several long moments until Anthony appeared, black jacket draped over a dark green sweater. He wore proper sunglasses during the daytime, these frames round and expensive, and Aziraphale felt a pang of disappointment at seeing only his reflection in the dark lenses. 

He greeted Anthony with a small wave and fell into step beside him. “Where to?”

Anthony didn’t answer right away, waiting until they were both in the car before twisting slightly in his seat. “There’s a diner over on West Street I’ve been wanting to try.”

“The Ivy?”

Anthony’s smile faltered. “You’ve been there?”

“No, but I work in Soho,” Aziraphale answered as he started the engine. “I hear it’s delicious.” He maneuvered onto the busy street and made a series of turns that pointed them in the right direction. “Would you like to retrieve your car now or later?”

“What time do you have to be at work?”

“Marvin and Amy open on Sundays, so I usually don’t go in until two or so.”

“Then let’s go eat now,” Anthony suggested. 

“Now it is.”

It didn’t take them long to reach The Ivy, and Aziraphale parked his Mini in a compact space near the front. They walked side by side to the front door, but Anthony’s longer arms got to the door first. He grinned widely as he held it open and gestured gallantly for Aziraphale to precede him.

The hostess at the front smiled brightly as they entered and showed them to a table by the windows right away. In the span of seconds they had glasses of water, menus and a promise of return by a chipper waiter with gelled back blonde hair and a perfect smile. Aziraphale guessed he was probably an actor or model of some kind, likely one who worked in the theaters of Soho. It wasn’t terribly uncommon for them to come into his establishment looking for supplemental work. He hired them when he could, but his current staff had been with him for some time and it didn’t look like they were going anywhere soon.

“So,” Aziraphale took another sip of his water, “your card says you’re a consultant? What kind of work do you do?”

Anthony cleared his throat and looked down into his glass through his shades. “I, uh, I’m between jobs at the moment.”

“Oh. Well, what did you do before?”

Anthony shrugged one shoulder and raised his head. “A few things. I used to work for Highways England as a surveyor, but I didn’t like that much. I worked as a nanny for a while, did some time as a waiter, then a nurseryman. I liked that well enough, but the nursery I worked at closed down a few weeks ago.”

Unsure how to respond, Aziraphale just hummed in acknowledgement and looked over his menu for a few seconds before deciding on a simple dish he knew he liked. He glanced up to find Anthony holding his own menu far too close to his face, obviously struggling to read through his dark lenses. It was already fairly dim in the diner compared to the sunlight outside, and Aziraphale wondered absently why he wore glasses indoors at all.

His companion’s head shot up quickly, and he realized with horror that he’d spoken his thought aloud. Their waiter came back with his blinding smile and matching attitude, interrupting whatever Anthony was going to say. They placed their orders and handed the menus back, settling into an easy silence. Anthony folded his arms on the table and leaned forward, casting his eyes around the diner in an effort to appear relaxed. Aziraphale fidgeted in his chair, forced himself to stop, and took a breath.

“Forgive me, it’s truly none of my business. It’s just...you seemed to be having trouble reading the menu.”

Anthony sat back in his seat and scratched the back of his neck with one hand. “Well, it’s just...my eyes. They’re not natural. They'll freak people out.” Something about his words rang false, like someone else was speaking through his mouth.

Aziraphale frowned. “Who told you that?”

Anthony squirmed uncomfortably. “Oh, erm, I…” His hands curled around his drink as he fixed his gaze on the tabletop. “Relentlessly religious foster parents, actually. They said I was cursed—possessed by a demon or something. Even tried an exorcism a few times.”

Aziraphale jerked in his seat, both at the revelation that Anthony had lost his parents and that his foster family had been so horrendous. “Oh, my! I’m...I’m so sorry, dear boy.” 

“No, _I’m_ sorry,” Anthony continued hastily, “I don’t know why I’m telling you this. It’s not exactly the best dining conversation.”

Aziraphale tamped down on the sudden rush of anger Anthony’s confession had evoked. “Not at all,” he applauded himself on keeping his tone even and calm. “It’s something of an occupational hazard, I suppose. People tend to...tell me things.”

“Well, you are pretty easy to talk to,” Anthony agreed a bit too lightly. His cheeks and the tips of his ears were bright red, and his chin dropped a fraction toward the floor.

“I’m sorry if I’ve made you uncomfortable.”

Anthony drummed his fingers absently around his glass. “S’fine.”

It wasn’t, and Aziraphale had a sudden urge to offer something of himself in return. “I can empathize with growing up in a religious family,” he admitted. “My whole family is...devout.” It was the nicest way to put it, and he clenched his teeth as a familiar tension seized him. He shook it off and continued, making a conscious effort to keep his discomfort out of his voice “My father and all five of my siblings are involved in the church in someway. My whole family has been clergymen or pastors or missionaries for generations. I’m the first to...stray from the path.”

“I guess becoming a bartender isn’t exactly what they had in mind for you?”

“Well, that and…” he trailed off, unsure how much of his own personal life to air to someone he could barely consider an acquaintance. But there was something about Anthony’s easy manner and friendly, open smile that made Aziraphale feel like he’d known him for far longer than a few weeks. “Let’s just say that my _inclinations_ aren’t exactly condoned by their narrow-minded and bigoted beliefs.”

“Ah.” Anthony sat up a bit straighter, as though he’d discovered something interesting. “I take it they don’t subscribe to the whole ‘love is love’ philosophy.”

“No,” Aziraphale chuckled humorlessly. “As Gabriel, my eldest brother, often reminds me.”

“Gabriel?” Anthony sounded better now that their conversation wasn’t focused on him. Aziraphale made a note to keep it that way for as long as possible, even if their current topic was somewhat painful. “As in…‘Be not afraid’?’”

“Exactly. I have three older brothers: Gabriel, Michael, and Raphael. I also have two older sisters, Uriel and Remiel.”

Anthony let out a huff of amusement. “I’ve never heard of the Archangel Aziraphale.” He sipped his drink slowly, finally letting a bit of a friendly tease back into his tone.

“No,” Aziraphale agreed. “My father was off doing mission work when I was born. My mother named me. She thought it was...unique. I admit she wasn’t wrong, even if it is a bit of a mouthful.” He wanted to talk more about his mother, to tell Anthony that there was one person in his family who didn’t despise who he was, someone who he thought probably loved him, but thought better of it. Family was a rather heavy conversation topic, after all, and Anthony didn’t really need all of the horrible details of the Fell patriarch’s iron-like grip over the family.

Their discussion was put on pause as their waiter returned with their meals. There were a few silent moments as they tucked in, but soon enough they picked right back up like they hadn’t been interrupted. 

“So how did you get into the bartending business?” Anthony asked around a mouthful of stew. 

Happy to be back in less heady territory, Aziraphale smiled. “Well, if you’ll forgive the pun, I rather fell into it, really.” He cut a portion of his meat pie with his fork and scooped it into his mouth. He chewed and swallowed quickly, eager to finish the story. “The bar was owned originally by the father of one of my university friends. He wasn’t a terribly well-liked man, but he was a decent enough businessman. When he passed, my friend washed his hands of the place and wanted nothing to do with it. I was looking for a change of pace and decided to take it over. He agreed, with the caveat that I change the name of the establishment and erase any trace of his father’s legacy.”

“Change of pace? What did you do before that?” 

Aziraphale’s expression darkened, but he could do nothing about it. It was an automatic reaction whenever he was reminded of his life before the bar, a life he’d done his best to forget. 

Anthony seemed to notice the change and he backtracked. “If you don’t want to talk about it, I understand. I was just curious.”

“It’s alright,” Aziraphale wiped the corners of his mouth with his napkin and sat back. “I...I was a part of a security team for a very wealthy man.”

“Security?” Anthony, too, relaxed into his seat, his half-eaten stew abandoned for the moment. “Like a bodyguard?”

Aziraphale nodded. “Exactly so. Specifically I was in charge of the team assigned to his daughter. He had...specific rules regarding her safety. I thought it a bit extreme, but I was young and fresh out of university and I needed the job. Oscar—the same friend whose father owned the bar—brought me into the company when I was just twenty-two. I went through six months of fairly intense training before I joined the team.” Aziraphale picked lightly at the tablecloth in an effort to keep from wringing his hands; it was a terribly bad habit that he’d picked up over the years.

“I bet you were good at it,” Anthony praised. “I mean...you handled those two last night pretty well.”

“I...I haven’t...done that in quite a while. I just reacted on instinct, I suppose. The benefits of rigorous training; it never really goes away.”

“Well, they’re bloody good instincts. You surprised me,” he laughed. “And you _definitely_ surprised them.”

Aziraphale frowned. “I don’t like violence,” he admitted. “I’d much rather handle things civilly.”

“Don’t much care for it myself,” Anthony said, “but sometimes civil doesn’t work.” Aziraphale disagreed, but out of concern for their pleasant afternoon he didn’t argue. 

“We should probably get back,” he suggested. “You probably have things to do and I need to get to work.” It was a weak excuse, but Anthony allowed it. He paid the bill and followed Aziraphale back out to the car. At first they said nothing else, but as soon as they turned out of the lot and onto West Street, Anthony spoke again.

“So what happened? You said you needed a change of pace? Did...did something happen? To the girl?”

“Hmm? No, not as such.” Aziraphale’s brow creased as he recalled moments he’d long since buried. “As I said, her father’s rules were quite strict. She wasn’t even allowed to leave the house without his express permission, and never without him. At first I thought it was because he had enemies who might try to kidnap or harm her. I tried to reassure him a few times that my team would protect her, but he never relented.” He kept his eyes on the road, but he could feel Anthony’s steadfast gaze on him. “It extended even beyond her physical well-being. She wasn’t allowed to own anything he didn’t first approve, she had a private tutor for her education chosen by him, and he even selected all of her books and videos. She knew only what he wanted to her know.”

“That sounds horrible.”

Aziraphale hummed in acknowledgement. “Eventually she acquired a phone without his knowledge. I found out later it was the neighbor boy who had slipped it to her through the back fence. They made a plan to sneak her out and run away together. I was the one who discovered the plot. She begged me not to tell her father. She said she was miserable, that she wanted to get away from her father and live her own life. All I had to do was look the other way when the boy came for her that night. It went against everything I had been trained to do, but when the time came all I could think about was my own upbringing and how much I despised being told what to do and who to be. So I let her go.”

“I’m guessing her father wasn’t happy with her disappearance?”

“He was furious,” Aziraphale confirmed, slowing to take the final turn into the pub’s parking lot. “But I had covered my tracks well enough that he had no idea I had done it on purpose. He let me go on the grounds of incompetence, but I didn’t care. I was glad to be rid of him, really.” He parked next to Anthony’s classic car and turned off his engine.

“And the girl?” Anthony asked.

At this, Aziraphale turned to his companion and smiled. “You’ve met her, actually.” He stepped out onto the pavement and locked the doors when Anthony did the same. Courtesy brought him around the boot to finish their conversation, but even as Anthony fished his keys from his pocket he seemed reluctant to leave until he’d deciphered Aziraphale’s words.

It was almost comical the way his eyebrows climbed into his hairline when it hit him. “Amy?”

Aziraphale nodded. “The same. She and her husband have been married almost twelve years now. They have three beautiful children, and her father is decidedly not invited to any family functions.” 

“You are, I bet.”

Aziraphale’s smile warmed into a fond thing as memories of birthday parties and holiday dinners and hand-crafted gifts began replacing the less pleasant ones. “I am.”

“So you saved her from an overbearing father _and_ gave her a job to support her family. You really are a guardian angel, huh?”

Aziraphale took the compliment as well as he could, with a dry chuckle and a quick duck of his head. “I should be getting inside. Thank you for lunch.”

Looking back later, Aziraphale would identify this as the moment it all went pear-shaped. He _should_ have laughed off Anthony’s compliment and bid him goodbye, _should_ have kept a decent amount of space between them. But Anthony was already leaning in, a fond smile on his face and one hand braced on the roof of his car. Aziraphale was too busy trying to quell the blossom of warmth that Anthony’s words had ignited in his chest, and so missed the brief hesitation followed by decisive resolve that flickered across the other man’s face. When his mind finally caught up, Anthony was already much too close. Panic set in, and a thousand reasons why this was a bad idea blared in his head. 

Anthony was his customer—one he’d assisted not once, but twice. If the younger man’s persistent offers of thanks were any indication, he likely felt indebted to Aziraphale for coming to his rescue both the night of the initial incident and during last night’s confrontation. If Aziraphale didn’t stop him now, he was going to do something he’d regret. 

But it was too late. Anthony’s face was angled just so as he stepped forward, closing the last of the distance between them in an attempted kiss. Aziraphale was a fraction of a second faster. He stumbled backward abruptly, nearly tripping over his own feet in the process. Anthony straightened immediately, cheeks inflamed as he stammered an apology.

“Sorry...Jesus, I’m... _shit_. I don’t...I thought…”

“No, _I’m_ sorry,” Aziraphale cut him off. “I shouldn’t have…”

There was no mistaking the grief stricken look that pulled Anthony’s sharp features into a deep frown. “I...I gotta go.” It took him two tries to get his key into the lock, and Aziraphale offered no protest when he practically threw himself into the driver’s seat. The slam of the car door was damning in the afternoon air, and Aziraphale could do nothing but watch as Anthony sped away without a backwards glance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year everyone! I hope everyone rang in the new decade exactly as they wished to, whether it was alone at home or celebrating with family/friends. Lots of information and action in this one. Sorry for the horrid cliffhanger (again). There will be a bit of angst and single braincell-ness in the next couple of chapters, but there is a happy ending, I promise!
> 
> Thank you to everyone who's left a comment. I love hearing from you!


	6. Chapter 6

The following week dragged on like an innocent man shambling to the gallows. Aziraphale tried his best to continue on like nothing had happened, but every time the door to the bar opened he glanced up hopefully, only to be disappointed when Anthony didn’t appear. It went on like that for another week more before Amy cornered him in the office Friday afternoon.

“Everything alright, boss?” Most of his staff addressed him thus, as “Mr. Fell” was far too formal and his given name was a tad cumbersome for constant use. Amy was the only one familiar enough to use it, but only when they were alone and most often when discussing things non-work related.

Aziraphale shuffled some papers around on his desk in an effort to appear busy. “Fine, fine. Everything is fine.” When she didn’t budge from her place leaning in the doorway, he glanced up. “Shouldn’t you be tending to the customers?”

“There’s two people out there,” she jabbed a thumb over her shoulder. “I think Tom can handle it.” She pushed away from the door and walked over to the desk. “You’ve been distracted for awhile. Do you want to talk about it?”

“What I want is for you to go back to work,” he snapped. Amy just raised one blonde eyebrow as if to say _see_ what I mean. Aziraphale sighed. “Forgive me, my dear. I’ve...got a lot on my mind.”

“Family problems?”

“No.” He hadn’t actually heard from them since the letter had arrived in his post almost two weeks ago. He’d never gotten around to opening it, and it sat nearly forgotten beneath a pile of newer mail. “I truly am fine, Amy. It’s nothing for you to concern yourself with.”

“Tom and I couldn’t help but notice Anthony hasn’t been by in a couple weeks.” It was somewhere between a statement and question, and her nod of understanding meant she’d gotten her answer from his instant reaction. 

“Couldn’t say.” He’d meant it as a dismissal, a subtle hint for her to leave him be and go back to work. Instead she remained, staring down at him, the look in her hazel green eyes inscrutable. Then she turned and closed the door, sealing them both away from any eavesdropping ears. 

“All those times you helped me,” she said as she came around and hitched herself up on the edge of the desk, “and you won’t let me return the favor?” He remained stubbornly silent and her next words were clipped with exasperation. “Come on,” she urged, “talking about it might make you feel better.”

He glared up at her, but there was no real heat in it. “Or it might make me feel worse.”

“So something _is_ bothering you. Does it have to do with why Anthony hasn’t made an appearance recently? Did something happen?” She sounded equal parts excited about the prospect and worried for the outcome, and Aziraphale wondered absently how much of his personal life was a topic of interest for his staff.

“Nothing happened. At least not in the way you’re thinking,” he told her firmly. Her anticipation tempered to curiosity, and he took a few moments to explain what had transpired beginning with the brief altercation in the parking lot. By the time he got to lunch and the rather unfortunate events of their parting, Amy was shaking her head.

“I love you, Aziraphale, but you’re an idiot sometimes.”

He straightened in his seat. “I beg your pardon!” 

“He fancies you,” she told him plainly. “It was pretty obvious from the way he looked for you immediately whenever he came in and didn’t stop staring at you until he left.” Aziraphale sputtered uncomfortably in his seat, his poor papers now shuffled and stacked so many times that the edges were beginning to wrinkle. “You saved him,” Amy went on. “ _Twice_. That, combined with your natural charm, and it’s no wonder he fell for you. I guess the question is, do you fancy him back?”

“It’s not that simple!”

Amy grinned triumphantly. “You do!”

Aziraphale stood up and stalked around the opposite side of the desk in an effort to put a little distance between him and the sudden discomfort that had overtaken him. “He’s a patron, Amy. One of my customers. It would be highly inappropriate. And you said it yourself,” he whirled about with a pointing finger. “I...I saved him from a horrible situation.” The words were difficult to get out; he’d never seen himself as the _heroic_ type. Really, he’d done no more in that situation than he was supposed to do. The fact that Anthony had seized upon that as a reason for his infatuation only proved Aziraphale’s point. “He’s confused his feelings of gratitude for something else, and I will not take advantage of him.”

“That’s a bit holier-than-thou, isn’t it?” Amy returned smartly. “Thinking you know his feelings better than he does?”

“Of course not, it’s just…” Aziraphale trailed off, unable to come up with a suitable argument for her claim. “Look, the point is,” he switched tack, ignoring the smug gleam in her eye, “it simply wouldn’t do for me to become involved with him after that. I would feel like…”

“Like you’re no better than the guy who tried to coerce him into something he didn’t really want?”

“Precisely.”

“Forgive my language, and I will absolutely go put a dollar in the jar, but that’s a load of bollocks.” She finally slid off the desk and came over to stand in front of him. In her low heels she was only a few inches shorter, and she stared into his eyes as she laid her hand on his arm. “You should go talk to him. I think you’re making a lot of assumptions here, and until you talk this over with him you’ll never know for sure. If you’re right, then maybe he’ll see that and you can still be friends.” Her fingers slipped down to grasp his in support. “But if you’re wrong? Think of how happy you could be.”

She squeezed his fingers once more, raised up on her toes to kiss his cheek lightly, then left him alone with his thoughts.

Two hours later he emerged from the office with his keys in hand. Amy gave him a bright smile from her place behind the bar, adding a rather enthusiastic thumbs up when he announced he was stepping out for the evening. He’d called Marvin and one of his part-time bartenders in last minute and he made them promise to call if they needed him, but he trusted his staff to be able to handle things on their own tonight.

_Besides_ , his mind added darkly, _if this goes at all like you expect, you’ll be back soon enough._

He banished that thought fiercely as he slid into his mini and started the engine. His fingers tapped nervously on the steering wheel as he navigated the maze of streets toward Mayfair where Anthony lived. He should have called first, but his mobile was in his pocket and he absolutely refused to use it while driving. He spent the entire drive practicing what he would say, starting with an apology for his behavior. The gift of time had let him see that day with fresh eyes, and given everything they had discussed at lunch and the easy manner with which they interacted, it was quite understandable how Anthony had misread his intentions.

_Did he misread them, really, or did you unconsciously lead him on?_ He already felt awful about how things had ended up, and his own internal musings didn’t help matters in the least. By the time he pulled up outside Anthony’s building he was a bundle of nerves and self-condemnation. He briefly thought about turning around and doing this another day, but if he didn’t go through with it now then he never would. 

The distance from his car to the door was spent adjusting his bow tie far too many times. He took several deep, cleansing breaths before reaching out to press the button next to Anthony’s name. It buzzed quietly, and Aziraphale imagined the noise echoing into Anthony’s flat. Just that ridiculously tenuous connection was enough to ramp his heart into overdrive, and it pounded furiously in his chest as he waited for the answer.

“Hey, come on up.” Anthony’s voice crackled through the speaker, and his easy invitation made Aziraphale reel. There was no way for Anthony to have known he was coming (unless Amy had somehow called him ahead of time, though he didn’t _think_ she had his number) but he was clearly expecting his arrival. The front door clicked sharply, unlocking to allow him entry. Aziraphale had mere seconds to make a decision, and before he could talk himself out of it he grasped the handle and tugged the door open.

He climbed the steps to the fourth floor, where he assumed Anthony’s flat was. He found number 43 at the end of the hall and stood for far too long outside trying to summon the courage to knock. Finally, he took a deep breath and raised his hand to rap two knuckles against the dark blue door.

“I got it, love.” The muffled voice on the other side was decidedly not Anthony’s, and Aziraphale froze as the door swung open. “About bloody time. We’ve been waiting for—” The man was taller than Aziraphale by several inches, with chiseled features and tousled blonde hair. The robe he wore fell just above his knees, and the front was tied in such a way that his bare chest was right at Aziraphale’s eye line. His cold blue eyes gave Aziraphale a once over as he raised one perfectly sculpted eyebrow. “You’re not the delivery boy.”

His well-practised courtesy was the only thing that allowed him to find his voice. “Oh I...erm, sorry, no. I was looking for Anthony?”

The man’s mouth pulled into a patronizing smile. “Anthony, darling,” he turned his head just far enough to let his voice carry into the flat behind him, though his eyes never left Aziraphale. “There’s a salesman at the door for you.” The man vanished into the flat before Aziraphale could correct him, though he wasn’t sure he had the wherewithal to do so. Every carefully crafted word he’d thought up on the way over had left him, and when Anthony appeared (equally underdressed and looking pleasantly disheveled) Aziraphale’s butterflies had metamorphosed into a swarm of bees in his chest.

A cascade of emotions played across Anthony’s face as he realized who had come calling, and by the time he’d settled on confused irritation, Aziraphale’s courage was gone.

“I’m terribly sorry to have disturbed…” he tried to think of a way to phrase it in a way that didn’t make him sound like a jealous beau, “...your evening,” he finished diplomatically. “I should have called ahead. I just wanted to see...to make sure you were...that is…oh, _bother_.” He took a steadying breath and forced himself to meet Anthony’s eyes, unobstructed by his usual eyewear and full of umbrage. “I just thought perhaps we should talk.”

Anthony crossed his arms, not in anger but as if to shield himself from a physical blow. The sight broke Aziraphale’s heart. “You made your thoughts _quite_ clear two weeks ago,” he said evenly, though there was a hint of embarrassment still lingering somewhere in between the syllables. 

“I didn’t, though, and I owe you an apology for it. And an explanation. But I can see you’re...occupied at the moment.” Aziraphale couldn’t help but glance over Anthony’s shoulder at the strange man who’d answered the door. He was hovering close enough to overhear their conversation, but it was Aziraphale who felt like an intruder. “I’ll leave you to it.” He turned around sharply, and it took every ounce of his willpower to keep his pace steady and slow. Anthony did not stop him, though he could feel the heat of his stare on the back of his neck as he retreated to the stairs.

How foolish he’d been! He’d left it too long, and obviously Anthony had taken his two week-long silence as confirmation of his rejection. And a rejection it had been, whether Aziraphale had meant it or not. His own tumultuous emotions aside, Anthony had taken a risk and been denied. Now he was moving on with his life. Aziraphale felt sick. He was barely aware of descending four flights of stairs to the ground floor, and by the time he exited the lobby he was sure his face was red and flushed from more than just exertion. 

He made it to his car before a harsh noise erupted from his throat that sounded suspiciously like a sob. He cursed himself for the outburst. There was no reason for him to be so despondent over the loss of something that could barely be considered a friendship. He was being ridiculous. He’d foolishly allowed himself to hope, to believe that Amy had been right and that whatever had begun with Anthony hadn’t been dashed away in those scant few moments of miscommunication two weeks ago. But she’d been wrong, and Aziraphale had paid the price. 

_Serves you right_ , his mind jeered. _You should have seen the signs. Shouldn’t have led him on. Should have been more careful to set boundaries after that night in the bar._

But that was his own terrible flaw, wasn’t it? He didn’t know how to remain aloof and distant, especially when someone was in trouble. It was what had led him to facilitate Amy’s liberation, and once she was out from under father’s thumb his sense of responsibility had pushed him to keep a watchful eye on her. Luckily it had all worked out in the end, but it seemed the universe wouldn’t be so kind twice.

With one last shaky breath, Aziraphale started his car and pulled away from Anthony’s building. He thought about returning to the bar, but he didn’t quite feel up to explaining it all to Amy when he walked back in alone and clearly disappointed. So he turned toward home, eager to curl up with a good book and a glass of wine try to drown out the regretful echoes of a million lost moments that would never come.


	7. Chapter 7

The world spun on and the sun still rose each morning, though Aziraphale couldn’t help but feel it was a bit dimmer than before. Amy didn’t bring up that evening again except to ask him what had happened the next day. When Aziraphale had told her, she’d clicked her tongue in sympathy and tried to persuade him to try again, but he refused. There was no sense in subjecting himself to more misery, and he would certainly not keep pestering Anthony if he’d obviously moved past it all. It would forever be Aziraphale’s greatest regret and while the pain of it was still rather fresh, he knew it would fade in time.

At least he hoped so. Because if he was resigned to this empty, echoing pang every time the door opened then he might as well close down the bar and move to a remote cottage in the middle of the countryside. The low point happened the following weekend when, during a rather slow Sunday afternoon, Aziraphale went to lose himself in his well-loved Shakespearean tome and he couldn’t focus at all. Unable to enjoy his favorite activity, he sprung from the couch with a low growl and very nearly shoved the book back into place.

“Whoa.” Amy’s quiet exclamation made his spin on his heel. “Never thought I’d have to say this, but easy with the books, boss.”

“What do you need?” His voice was tight with barely contained irritation. He knew it was unfair to take out his frustration on her, and he took several deep breaths to calm himself down.

“I was gonna take my lunch, but I think you need it more than me.”

He was plucking his coat from the rack as she finished. “Let’s go together. My treat.” He pulled the office door closed behind him. “Consider it an apology for my atrocious behavior this last week.” He’d been boorish and short with his staff since last Saturday, and though no one said anything he could feel their stares on him. He guessed Amy had run interference for him to keep their prying questions at bay, and he silently added a thank you gift to his list of things he owed her. 

“Only if you let me drive,” she countered as they stepped out into the bright London afternoon. It was one of those days that made Aziraphale want to take a stroll around the park. Fluffy clouds rolled lazily in the sky, intermittently blocking the sun for a few seconds at a time. The summer heat had finally abated, giving way to the cooler breezes and changing colors of fall. They had begun their trek to the back of the lot where the employees parked, but Aziraphale didn’t want to shut himself away from the day now that he was out in it. It was his favorite time of year, and it seemed a shame to be cooped up inside a car. 

“Let’s walk.”

There were a few cafes and restaurants within walking distance of the bar, and they decided on the small Indian place two blocks over. It had been one of Amy’s must-haves when she was pregnant with her youngest, and Aziraphale had taped their number up in his office in case of any craving emergencies. Thankfully the owner understood well, and her son was often delivering dishes to the bar at odd hours with just a phone call.

Their lunch conversation centered mostly around Amy and her family by unspoken agreement. Her eldest, Jason, was just beginning secondary school and Aziraphale listened to the secondhand woes of a teenage boy with a fond grin. The middle child, a girl named Ellie, had just made the gymnastics team, and he agreed to come to her next competition if he could manage it. The youngest, a rambunctious boy named Zacharias, was his secret favorite—and not just because the boy had been given his own middle name in his honor. At only two, he was already displaying signs of a high intellect complemented by a mischievous streak that kept his parents on their toes, and his antics often had Aziraphale clutching at his sides with laughter.

When lunch was over and Aziraphale had paid the tab, they left the quaint bistro and ambled back toward the bar. As they neared, Amy patted his arm where she’d tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow.

“Why don’t you go for a walk?” she prompted. “We can handle the light crowd this afternoon and you need to get out of that cramped office for a while.”

“I’m alright, my dear,” he tried to deflect her concern, but she just shook her head.

“You’re not, but that’s okay. You need to take some time for yourself; time that isn’t sitting in the bar where you met him or alone in your flat where you can think yourself into a tizzy. Go out to the park and feed the ducks, or just sit on the bench and just people watch. You’ll feel better.”

“And if I refuse?” He raised his brow teasingly and she laughed.

“I’ll let Marvin put his American football on all the televisions.”

Aziraphale grimaced. He allowed his best floorman to display the horrid sport on the screen closest to the door, but the rest of the televisions in his establishment were reserved for more refined things like golf and cricket. During the proper seasons, rugby and football were quite prominent, though he didn’t make a habit of hosting large viewing parties. He preferred more subdued clientele for the most part, and those rowdy hooligans were often more trouble than they were worth in sales. 

“Alright,” Aziraphale relented. “I have my mobile on me. You’ll ring if you need me?”

“Of course,” Amy promised. “Now go.” She turned him away from her and gave him a light shove. He frowned for a moment and debated walking her the rest of the way to the bar, but it was fairly close and the middle of the day, not to mention there were so many pedestrians out and about on this wonderful day that she would likely be safe enough going back on her own.

He waved over his shoulder and meandered down the street toward St. James’ Park. It was quite a walk from where he was, but it was worth it. By the time he crossed Piccadilly he was feeling a bit better. He purchased a small bag of birdseed from a man walking along the Mall and made a beeline for the lake. He came to rest next to a low, wrought iron fence and untwisted the small wire tie that held the bag closed.

The first half handful scattered atop the blue black surface of the water, a thousand ripples radiating outward. He could almost imagine those ripples like the disorder in his own mind, pulsing out from a single point of shock. That night at Anthony’s had been like the first splash of seed on water—a terrible, tiny eruption that had created nothing but wave after wave of misery in the week since. It was soothing to watch the concentric rings peter out and smooth back into undisturbed perfection. It gave him hope that one day the pain that clenched at his heart would fade.

“Aziraphale!” 

A rock thunked into the pool of his mind, and he whirled so quickly that the remaining seed in his bag scattered on the ground at his feet.

“G-Gabriel? Remiel? What on earth are you doing here?” The twins were the eldest of all of his siblings, and though they were fraternal, they bore an uncanny resemblance to one another. Both were tall and broad shouldered with dark hair like their father. Gabriel’s was styled to appear windswept, though it was a little _too_ perfect to achieve the carefree attitude he was going for. Remiel’s raven tresses were pulled back into a tight tail near the crown of her head, giving her a rather severe image. Both had the same piercing eyes, so blue they appeared almost violet under certain lighting, and they were staring down at Aziraphale with matching arrogance.

It was Gabriel who answered. “We were in the neighborhood for a charity function and wanted to stretch our legs. What are you doing here?”

“Oh, just feeding the ducks.” 

Of all of his siblings, Gabriel was the most intimidating. He was in amazing physical shape thanks to good genes and his daily jogging regimen, and he had enough money to pay for expensive tailored suits that showed off his physique. He wasn’t a genius by anyone’s standards, though he was smart enough in his own way. Aziraphale had once called him “perfect management material” as an insult and Gabriel had thanked him quite sincerely for the compliment. It stood out as one of Aziraphale’s favorite moments with his brother, which probably said a lot about their relationship.

“With what?” 

Aziraphale half-turned back toward the lake, glanced down at his empty bag and chuckled nervously. “Right, well...I suppose I’m finished. I must get back to work. Lovely to see you.” He moved as though to walk between them but they each took a small step inward, not threateningly, but just enough to block him.

“Are you alright?” Remiel’s saccharine tone grated on his nerves but he maintained his smile despite the thumping of his heart.

“Of course. Tickety boo.”

Remiel ignored him. “You seem...troubled.”

Aziraphale shook his head sharply. They absolutely could _not_ find out the reason for his odd behavior. He could already hear the hateful lecture he’d receive if they learned he was hung up _on a man_. Aziraphale had cut all contact with the family when their father started throwing around hints about “camps” and “transformational ministry.” He’d only recently begun talking to some of them again, though he only actively sought out conversations with his mother and Raphael, his youngest elder brother. The rest could go hang, for all he cared, including the two looming over him now.

Gabriel smiled a little too sweetly and took a tiny, almost miniscule step forward. “Oh come on, now. We’re family. You can talk to us about anything.” He was so close that Aziraphale had to crane his neck slightly to look him in the eye.

“There’s nothing to tell.”

Gabriel did not believe him, but he let it go. “Did you get my letter?”

“I did.” _Technically not a lie_ , he told himself.

“And?”

Aziraphale needed to leave before his brother learned that the unopened letter sat at the bottom of his inbox, unread. “Gabriel, I would love to discuss it, but I really must be getting back to work.” This time he tried to push past them physically. Gabriel pushed back.

“Now hold on.” 

His arm was like an iron rod, his palm cold and firm on Aziraphale’s chest. The span of time between university and taking over the bar were the most distanced he’d ever been from his family, and so they all remained completely unaware just what it was he’d done after graduation. It took all of Aziraphale’s finely honed control not to give Gabriel a demonstration.

“Let me pass.” He kept his voice close to a whisper, but there was no mistaking the warning in his tone. 

Gabriel’s smile faded. “You’re hiding something,” he pressed. “What is it?”

Aziraphale stepped back, causing Gabriel’s hand to drop. “Frankly it’s none of your business,” he hissed. “Excuse me.” This time he used an old trick he’d learned in one of his earliest defense classes. He glanced to his right suddenly, letting his gaze settle on something for a moment. As soon as Gabriel and Remiel turned their heads to look, Aziraphale was side-stepping around to the left. He was past them before they realized what he’d done, and they turned.

“Surely you can stay a bit longer.” Remiel’s request was a touch too eager, her smile thin and forced. “It’s been too long since we’ve caught up. Father has been asking after you.”

That was probably untrue, unless he’d been asking if Aziraphale had renounced his “sinful lifestyle,” but Aziraphale hummed in acknowledgement anyway. He had to figure out a way to keep them from following him back to the bar. He couldn’t think of anything worse than his family invading his sanctuary. He was saved from crafting a plausible response by his mobile ringing in his pocket. He silently thanked Amy for her impeccable timing and answered it without looking at the screen.

“Amy, my dear, I told you not to ring unless it was an _emergency_.” He hoped she understood his meaning, because he desperately needed a way out of this uncomfortable and impromptu family reunion. 

“Oh, it’s uh...not Amy.”

Aziraphale’s heart hammered in his chest as Anthony’s smooth tenor filled his ear. “Oh,” exclaimed, attempting to hold onto his ruse even as his mind panicked. “I...I see.” It was non-committal enough to keep Gabriel and Remiel at bay and give him time to come up with something. He just hoped he didn’t upset Anthony or cause him to hang up out of confusion.

“I...I’m sorry to interrupt,” Anthony stammered endearingly. “I just looks like you could use some rescuing for once.”

Aziraphale glanced around sharply at Anthony’s words. Sure enough, just at the bend of the concrete path about thirty meters away, he found a familiar streak of red hair. Anthony gave a little wave, safely out of sight behind Aziraphale’s siblings. From this distance, Aziraphale couldn’t make out his expression, but there was something conciliatory about the set of his shoulders that caused Aziraphale’s already-pounding heart to skip a beat.

“Thank you for calling,” Aziraphale was careful to keep his eyes away from Anthony as he spoke in what he hoped was an official tone. “I’ll be right there.” He tried to convey so much in those eight words, and judging from the quiet chuckle that came over the line Anthony had gotten the message. Aziraphale hung up quickly and smiled apologetically. “Work calls,” he lamented with a smile he hoped conveyed more confidence than he felt. 

Gabriel eyed him shrewdly for a moment more, then nodded. “We should be getting back anyway,” he conceded. “I’ll call you next week to set up a dinner. Remi’s right—it’s been too long.”

“Yes, quite.” Aziraphale started to turn away and leave, but Gabriel reached out with a vice-like grip and pulled him by his shoulders into a crushing hug. Aziraphale felt his breath rush out of him as his brother clapped his back firmly. 

“Take care of yourself, brother.” Gabriel’s whisper felt more like a threat than brotherly concern,. He released Aziraphale with as much force as he’d grabbed him, leaving him stunned enough for Remiel to embrace him just as fiercely. 

“We’ll be in touch.” And they were gone. 

Aziraphale moved in the opposite direction, not caring that he wasn’t headed back toward Soho at all. He just needed to put space between himself and his family. _Now there’s a familiar sentiment_ , his mind quipped darkly.

“Oh hush.” Aziraphale scowled deeply, not liking at all how it felt on his face.

“Sorry?” Anthony fell into step beside him, his gait a little too casual to be anything but forced. Despite his timely rescue, it was clear that their little encounter last weekend was still at the fore of his mind.

Aziraphale straightened quickly. “Oh, I’m sorry,” he shook his head, “I...I wasn’t talking to...nevermind. Thank you for the call. I wasn’t quite sure how I was going to get rid of them.”

Anthony pulled one of his hands from the tiny slip of a pocket at his hips and jabbed a thumb over his shoulder. “Who were those guys?” 

“My eldest siblings, Gabriel and Remiel. Took me by surprise while I was feeding the ducks.”

Anthony craned his head around as though he could still see them. “ _That’s_ Gabriel?” Then, with a half-hearted smirk, he added, “Looked like a prick.”

Aziraphale barked in amusement, then clapped a hand over his mouth to stifle the rest of his laughter. “He can be,” he conceded amicably. With the looming presence of Gabriel no longer hovering over him, Aziraphale had hoped that his heart rate would return to normal, but Anthony’s presence kept it jack-rabbiting in his chest. “Why—?” He cut himself off quickly and changed tactics. “What are you doing in the park today?”

Anthony shrugged, keeping his lense-covered gaze out toward the path ahead of them. “I like it here,” he answered. “Walking around helps me think. Or not think,” he rushed on quickly. “Depends on my mood.”

“And what is your mood today?” Aziraphale couldn’t help but ask. Despite having his heart crushed last week, he found himself still concerned with Anthony and how he was doing. It was a terrible curse to be so empathetic, but there was nothing to be done for it now. The question was out there between them, its meaning so much more poignant than its denotation implied.

“Not good,” Anthony admitted. “I think I fucked up. I made a mess of things with someone I...someone I care about, and I’m not sure they will forgive me.”

Aziraphale remembered the blonde man who had answered Anthony’s door. He had seemed quite cozy bundled in his robe, expecting take out for what was certainly meant to be a romantic evening in. Obviously something had gone awry in the days since, and Anthony was hurting because of it. And while Aziraphale wasn’t quite through processing all of his own emotions regarding Anthony and his rejection, his instinct to offer aid and comfort was undeniable.

“I’m sorry to hear it.” He forced the words from his throat, lacing them with as much sympathy as he could muster. They could still be friends. As much as that thought pained him, Aziraphale truly did not want to cut Anthony from his life completely. He could manage his own tumultuous emotions another time; for now he pushed his own discomfort aside and focused on the man next to him. With a quick nod of his head, he pulled Anthony off the path and to a nearby bench. They sat side by side, though there was enough space between them for a third person to sit comfortably.

“Have you spoken to them since the, erm, the falling out?”

Anthony gave him a curious sidelong glance, like he was trying to puzzle something out, then shrugged. “Not really. Like I said, I cocked it all up and now I don’t know how to go about talking to them about it.”

“Well, I’ve always favored the direct approach.”

“Really?” Anthony’s voice was drier than the Sahara, and this time he actually turned his head to look at Aziraphale straight on. “What if…” he trailed off, his gaze moving back out toward the lake in front of them. 

A small flock of ducks floated by, quacking insistently at the couple standing just at the fence tossing in what appeared to be pieces of their shared sandwich. Aziraphale frowned for a moment but knew that it wasn’t the time to educate poor unsuspecting park goers with the truth about bread. Instead, he focused on Anthony’s problem.

“What if...what?”

Anthony’s frown deepened, accentuating the laugh lines around his eyes and drawing his lips downward as he thought how best to answer. “What if I’ve missed my chance?”

The pain in his voice was heartbreaking. He obviously cared for this friend a great deal, and for one selfish moment Aziraphale wished he hadn’t messed things up so completely between them. The idea of basking in the warmth of Anthony’s adoration was nearly overwhelming, and he had to take several deep breaths to get his rebellious thoughts back under control.

“Perhaps…perhaps your friend just needs some time,” he said finally.

“Time?” Anthony repeated slowly. Then, a bit more sadly. “Yeah, alright.” He stood up quickly, starting the motion with his hips, and Aziraphale did his best not to stare. He mostly succeeded.

“Where are you going?”

“Home,” Anthony answered flatly. “I’ll...I’ll see you around, yeah?”

Aziraphale wanted to stop him, to sit him back down on the bench and talk to him properly about everything that had happened between them—or _not_ happened, as the case had been. But it was clear Anthony did not want to talk about it, had even said as much the last time they’d spoken. And for all of his earlier willingness to help, Aziraphale wasn’t sure he wanted to hear more about Anthony’s paramour. So he let him go.

“Yes, of course. Mind how you go.” 

There was a slight hesitation in Anthony’s shuffle, a pause that made Aziraphale think he was going to say something else. Then he just nodded and walked away.

Anxiety hit Aziraphale like a lorry speeding down a winding road, like a decision had been made without his input and he would have to live forever with the horrible consequences. It pulled him up from the bench in a rush of panic, and he took several steps after Anthony before he realized the man was nowhere to be found. He’d slipped into the crowd like a snake in tall grass, and no matter which way Aziraphale turned he could not find him. 

He spun a few more times for good measure, then sighed in resignation. “Bugger.”


	8. Chapter 8

“I can’t believe it.” Amy was standing in the center of his office, hands on her hips, her head canted just so to express her disapproval. 

“Yes, well, I had hoped that his call meant we would get around to talking, but it’s obvious that...what is the expression? Ah, yes, that ship has sailed. He’s clearly infatuated with his new...friend.” Aziraphale really didn’t want to talk about it anymore, but Amy had come barging into his office almost the moment he’d returned. He’d recounted the entire ordeal with thinly veiled melancholy, and while she’d tutted sympathetically regarding his siblings, she’d turned quite ruthless the moment he mentioned the phone call.

“Not what I meant,” she huffed. “What I _meant_ was, ‘I can’t believe you’re this dense.’ How can someone as clever as you be so dense?”

Aziraphale pressed his lips into a thin line as he eyed her shrewdly. “You do realize I haven’t sent out wages for this month, yes?” 

“He was talking about _you_ , you idiot.”

Her sharp tone brought him up short and he blinked owlishly at her. “I beg your pardon?”

“The friend?” She spoke slowly, as though she was explaining a particularly difficult concept to her two-year old. “The one he said he messed things up with? The one he obviously wants to talk to? It’s _you_.”

Aziraphale shook his head and shuffled his papers to give his hands something to do. “It can’t be. He said he wanted to talk to his friend regarding their troubles. I was sitting right there and he never mentioned anything.”

“Neither did you,” Amy pointed out.

“I was flustered! Gabriel and Remiel ambushed me. They threw my entire afternoon off kilter.” He sighed. “Besides, I wouldn’t know how to go about starting that conversation in the first place.”

“Did you ever think he might have the same problem?” Amy’s tone was softer now, more motherly, and Aziraphale was caught between annoyance at her obvious cosseting and gratitude for her concern. 

“What about the man in the robe at his flat? They were obviously...canoodling.”

Amy’s put-upon expression at his word choice would have been comical if the situation hadn’t been so dire. “Possibly, yeah. Two of you aren’t together, he can ‘canoodle’ who he likes. But I bet you a week’s wages they weren’t.”

Aziraphale frowned. “You can hardly afford to lose a week’s wages, dear.”

“Fine,” she waved her hand dismissively. “My point is, they might have just been having a bitch night.”

“A what?”

“Comfy robes, wine, takeout? Probably a mindless movie or two? Might have been a romantic night in, but it could just as easily have been him and a friend getting together for an evening of self-indulgence and bitching about their lives.” When Aziraphale didn’t concede the point, she sighed and threw her hands up. “Think about this then. He spoke in vague terms, he never used names and he was obviously nervous.” She paused, waiting for Aziraphale to connect the dots. When he said nothing she very nearly groaned in frustration. “He was testing the waters, so to speak. He’d already made a move once, yeah? Didn’t go so well for him. It’s enough to make anyone a bit skittish.”

The slow trickle of realization seeped in, transforming his despondency to horror. “Oh,” he breathed. He replayed those last few moments on the bench from a much different perspective, heard himself ask—in an extremely convoluted and not at all clear way—for time, and Anthony had immediately taken his leave to give it to him. It explained the hesitation, the way Anthony refused to look at him properly, the careful, anguished warble that caught in his throat as he lamented about missed chances. Amy was right; he was an idiot. “ _Oh!_ ”

“I already called Tom in,” Amy was grabbing his coat from the rack even before he stood. She held it out to him with a bright smile. Aziraphale nearly tripped over his own feet trying to get around his desk, and as he shrugged the old thing on she patted his shoulders. “Good luck.”

The drive from the bar to Anthony’s flat usually took twenty minutes. He made it in fifteen. He caught the door as a woman exited the building with her dog, and he was so keyed up that he jogged the four flights of stairs that separated him from his destination. His fist pounded the door of number 43 firmly, and he gulped in deep breaths that were equal parts exertion and anxiety.

Several agonizingly long seconds later, the bolt slid back and the door opened, revealing Anthony dressed just how Aziraphale had last seen him in the park. Dark blue jeans hugged his legs tightly from hips to ankles, stopping just short of a rather stylish pair of boots. The right half of his black button up was untucked from the waistband of his trousers, and his face was bare of any kind of eyewear, allowing Aziraphale to see the confusion and panic clearly in his amber gaze. His unique pupils were blown wide in surprise, giving them an almost keyhole-like shape, and Aziraphale had never seen a more stunning sight.

Anthony’s tongue couldn’t seem to settle on a syllable, and he muttered a string of nonsensical inquisitive sounds before settling on, “Hi.”

“I’m an idiot,” Aziraphale said by way of greeting. He was still trying to catch his breath from his sprint up the stairs, and he was fairly certain his heart was trying to punch its way through his chest, but he forced himself to keep Anthony’s gaze firmly. There would be no miscommunication this time, no chance for one of them to misunderstand or interpret anything incorrectly. Because Aziraphale wasn’t going to leave without laying it all out before them, consequences be damned. He’d rather know for certain where Anthony stood, and vice versa, than go back to the awful uncertainty that had plagued him these last weeks.

“Would you—” Anthony’s voice caught in his throat and he cleared it violently as he took a half-step backward. “Would you like to come in?”

Seconds later, Aziraphale stood in the cavern that served as Anthony’s main living space. It was an open floor plan, with the kitchen, dining space and living room forming one large square broken up by three pillars randomly placed around the area. The entire back wall was comprised of floor to ceiling windows, and for a moment Aziraphale was struck by the breathtaking view of the London skyline painted orange in the late afternoon sun. A series of three shallow steps stretched wall to wall leading from the living room to a raised area just in front of the windows. It was dotted by a veritable forest of potted plants of varying sizes, from a small begonia to a large ficus. There was a single hallway that branched off to the right of the front door that presumably led to a washroom and Anthony’s bedroom.

“Can I get you a drink?” 

Aziraphale spun in a circle as the other man breezed by him. “That’s usually my line.” The joke fell flat between them, and Aziraphale’s teasing smile dropped with it.

Anthony didn’t look up as he stepped around the rectangular island in the center of the kitchen. “I don’t have quite the same vast selection you do,” he reached down beneath the dark marble top and pulled a few glass bottles from beneath, “but what I do have is good.”

Aziraphale mulled over the choices as he walked over and hitched one leg over a sleek black barstool. “I’ll have the Teeling.” 

Anthony poured a healthy portion into two matching tumblers. He passed one along the black and silver surface still without looking up, and when Aziraphale reached for the glass Anthony pulled his fingers away quickly. His obvious avoidance hurt, but he couldn’t fault the man for it. 

“You wanted to talk,” Anthony said after a long sip. “Last week, I mean. What...what did you want to say?”

Aziraphale took a sip of his own, savoring the palate and finish as a connoisseur of fine spirits. It was quite good, and he made a note to add a bottle to his personal stock. “I...have a question first, if you would humor me? Today—earlier, I mean—in the park. Were you referring to me when you spoke about your friend? The one with whom you believed you...made a mess of things?”

Anthony tipped his chin down, the barest hint of a nod, though his eyes remained fixed on the swirling liquid in his glass. 

“I see.” Aziraphale braced himself with another pull from the glass. “And if I told you that you hadn’t? That it was only my own self-doubt and overcautiousness that kept me from reaching out to you so many times? That from the moment we met, I haven’t been able to keep you from my thoughts?” He wished Anthony would look at him; it would be much easier to gauge how his words were being received if he could see his eyes. “Would it make any difference at all for you to know that you haven’t missed your chance? If you still want it, that is.”

For a long moment Anthony said nothing, and Aziraphale feared he may have misread the entire thing. But then those magnificent golden eyes lifted from their inspection of the marble countertop and settled on Aziraphale like a heavy blanket.

“Yes.” 

It was a single syllable stretched on the end of a sigh, but Aziraphale heard it nonetheless. It was enough to silence the last of his worries, to calm the furious pulse of his heart beating in his chest. Emboldened by Anthony’s answer and the sheer depth of _hope_ he could see swimming behind the wariness in his eyes, Aziraphale continued.

“I pulled away that day after lunch because you had just gone through a terrible ordeal, and I understand all too well how...attached one can become to someone who offers safety and reassurance during such an awful time.” He curled his fingers around his tumbler, raising it to take another slow sip to give him time to choose his words carefully. “I couldn’t have borne it if either of us had done something you would later regret, so I hesitated. I know I hurt you, and for that I am truly sorry. But some time and distance have allowed me to see things from a different perspective and…” he trailed off as he lost his nerve for a moment. But Anthony was still waiting, his face pinched, and Aziraphale could no longer stand to see the sorrow creased into the lines between his eyes. “If it’s alright with you, I’d very much like to kiss you now.”

Anthony’s palpable relief washed over him, calm and cool like a coursing river, and Aziraphale smiled at the faint but decisive nod he received in answer. He left his whiskey half-finished on the counter as he stood, his steps slow and measured. Anthony tracked his progress around the corners of the island, like quarry frozen in place by the fearsome gaze of a predator. But Aziraphale did not stalk, did not move with any intent to harm. Instead he came to rest at Anthony’s shoulder, adjusting only slightly as the man turned in his seat to face him. He searched a moment more for an answer in those luminous fire-gold eyes, then, with the most careful of movements, he leaned forward. 

The first brush of his lips against Anthony’s was heaven. They were barely touching, but every nerve was instantly set alight and he chased the feeling with a firmer push of his mouth. His hands moved of their own accord to slide into the soft hair above Anthony’s ears, his palms settling against the ridge of his cheekbones like they’d been molded for that purpose. Someone hummed—perhaps it had been both of them—and the sound was enough encouragement for him to banish the last inch of space between them. 

A long arm snaked around his waist as their bodies came together, and the position gave Aziraphale the perfect angle to coax Anthony’s jaw open with his thumbs. His tongue licked into Anthony’s mouth, drawing a whimper of delight from its depths to meet with his own. The knees bracketing his hips were like brands, two points of white hot sensation that drove him mad as they squeezed inward ever so slightly. Aziraphale knew he needed to pull away, to put some space between them before he pushed too far, too fast. But the way Anthony was gripping at him, like he was a buoy in turbulent waters, was exhilarating. He drew out the kiss for a bit longer, memorizing the slide of their tongues against each other, clinging to the sounds Anthony was making like it was the only time he’d hear them.

When he finally did pull back, both of them were gasping for air. Aziraphale raised his head and pulled Anthony against him, tucking him into an embrace as his fingers carded through the mussed copper strands. Anthony’s deep breaths tickled the sensitive skin of his neck and he shivered in delight as he dipped his chin.

“You’ve consumed me,” he whispered against the crown of Anthony’s head, “and the ferocity of it frightens me.” Aziraphale inhaled the intoxicating scent of his cardamom and clove shampoo, the sweet fragrance mixing with the spice of his cologne and the fresh, earthy scent that pervaded the flat. He was content to remain like that for a long time, but after a few long moments Anthony leaned back and tilted his face up to level his singular gaze on Aziraphale.

“Will you stay?” His voice was rough with desire and relief, his honeyed eyes nearly swallowed whole by inky black pupils. There was something like the press of _forever_ in Anthony’s grip, its gentle insistence far more reminiscent of a plea than a demand. 

Aziraphale answered with a promising caress of his own, careful fingers sifting through soft hair whispering _of course_ and _I’m here_. He pressed a warm kiss to the space just between Anthony’s eyes, letting his lips linger for several indulgent moments. 

“Of course,” he murmured against smooth skin. “Of course I’ll stay.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for everyone who has left a comment or kudos. They really are a writer's lifeblood. Here is part one of that happy ending I promised you all.


	9. Chapter 9

Aziraphale adjusted his green sweater vest once stepping out of his mini, and again as he walked up the path to the modest two-story home tucked into the back of a newly built neighborhood. It was a quaint little suburb with two small parks for children and another for dogs, along with numerous bike paths and hiking trails leading into the wooded area to the north. It was unlike Aziraphale’s own flat, a cluttered, tiny flat located in the heart of the city, and it reminded him rather suddenly of the large sprawling estate he’d grown up in. He glanced up at the house, bedecked with blue and gold balloons on the fence and matching streamers stretching from window to window, and took a deep breath.

“Alright, angel?”

The tension that had been building in his shoulders evaporated instantly, and he smiled warmly at Anthony coming around the front of his mini to join him on the pavement. He cut a fine figure in his black jacket over dark jeans and navy shirt. Despite the bright sun overhead, he had chosen to wear the same blue-tinted lenses that he’d worn the night they’d met. Aziraphale was glad to be able to see his adoring gaze, but even more proud that Anthony was comfortable enough not to hide behind the black reflective lenses any longer.

“I’m alright,” he answered, punctuating his words with a teasing huff of mock annoyance at the pet name that had been used more than his own name.

(“You _are_ an angel,” Anthony had argued when he’d first tested out the endearment. “And not just because you’re a literal guardian angel. You’re perfect. Heavenly. _Divine_.” He’d punctuated each description with a kiss to Aziraphale’s face and neck, and that night had devolved rather rapidly into one of Aziraphale’s most treasured memories. Their first time together had been magical, and they had spent almost the entire day in bed discovering all the ways to take each other apart.)

The last few months had been heaven on earth because of the man standing next to him, and Aziraphale’s smile only grew as he thought about all of the wonderful memories they’d made since the day they’d finally cleared up all of those terrible misunderstandings. Anthony had been nothing short of perfection, indulgent to the point of spoiling him with gifts, dinners and—Aziraphale’s favorite thing—a never ending stream of caresses and kisses. And, once they’d gotten past those first few awkward days that always accompanied a new relationship, they’d found they complemented each other perfectly, both in and out of the bedroom.

A warm hand slid into his, and Anthony’s long fingers squeezed his in silent question. Aziraphale squeezed back, reassuring him with nothing more than his touch and a smile. 

“You ready for this?”

There was a hint of anxiety in Anthony’s words that mirrored the fluttering in Aziraphale’s stomach. It was the first time they were attending a family function as a couple, after all; there were bound to be some nerves for both of them. But hearing Anthony’s apprehension made it easier for Aziraphale to forget his, choosing instead to focus on soothing his partner.

“It will be fine,” he promised. “If it’s too overwhelming, just say the word and we’ll leave.”

Anthony frowned. “This is important to you,” he argued, “which means it’s important to me. And I…” he paused, and Aziraphale waited patiently for him to collect his thoughts. “It’s your family, angel. I want them to like me.”

They’d already talked about this on the drive over, but it seemed Anthony needed another reminder. “I want that, too. But even if they don’t, it will not change how I feel about you. It won’t change us, Anthony.” He didn’t resist the impulse to lift up on his toes for a brief kiss. Anthony returned it eagerly, as he always did whenever they kissed, like he was afraid it would be the last time. 

Aziraphale glanced up at the front door, which now seemed less daunting than it had before. “Come on.”

They walked up the shallow steps to the raised porch, trodding on the pristine welcome mat as Aziraphale raised his free hand to knock. He held fast to Anthony with the other, drawing on strength from their connection and lending his in return. 

Footsteps thundered on the other side of the door, followed by a shriek and a thump.

“Hey!” A small girl’s voice cried out, then, “ _Mom!_ Jason pushed me into the door!”

“We were racing!” 

The second voice was deeper for a moment, then cracked boyishly at the end. Aziraphale smiled. The doorknob turned, revealing the grinning faces of Jason and Ellie. The boy towered over his sister, his lanky form stretched in that teenage awkwardness that would smooth itself out in a few years. Ellie was pouting in a neon pink dress and dark blue leggings, and her arms were crossed over her chest as she glared at her brother. Just behind them, Amy came up with Zacharias on her hip, though he was almost too big for her petite frame to manage it. The toddler grinned broadly as he caught sight of Aziraphale, and he began wiggling in his mother’s arms immediately. Amy kept a hold of him as she came to a stop next to the still-open door.

“Aziraphale, Anthony!” she greeted cheerfully. “Glad you could make it. Come on in. Kids, get out of the way.” She shooed them off toward the den so she could lean in and offer each of them a proper hug. As she pulled away from Aziraphale, Zacharias’ little fingers stayed curled around his collar and the boy shifted his weight toward his godfather.

“Hello, little one.” Aziraphale accepted him easily, settling the toddler on his hip. “Happy birthday!”

“Uncle Zee, I’m three!” he exclaimed, holding up four fingers. Aziraphale chuckled and pulled his other hand free to help him with the correct number.

“You are? Well I suppose that means you should get a present. Oh!” he turned back toward the door, “I left it in the car.”

Anthony sighed in false exasperation. “I’ll get it, angel.” He turned and jogged back out toward the street, leaving Amy and Aziraphale standing in the foyer.

“I’m glad you brought him,” Amy said. “I love seeing you happy.” Her words held a note of triumph, and he knew she was barely holding back her _I told you so_ for his sake.

“I am,” Aziraphale agreed, unable to keep a grin from his face. “Deliriously so.”

“We’ve noticed.” Amy hugged him again, a bit more awkwardly now that he was holding a three year old in his arms. “Come on in. We’ve got food and drinks in the kitchen, and the others are out back. Marvin is trying to explain American football to the new guy.” 

Aziraphale had recently hired a young man from Edinburgh escaping a rather horrible family situation, one that echoed his own terrible adolescence. The boy had been horrified about revealing so much to a practical stranger, but Aziraphale had reassured him that his secrets were safe. None of his staff knew the details, and Amy had taken the boy under her wing immediately. He claimed to have a friend in London with whom he was staying, but Aziraphale had made it known that his spare room was available if he needed a place to sleep. It was unclear if the boy would stay for any length of time, but for now Aziraphale could offer him a bit of income and a safe, secure place if he needed it. 

His thoughts wandered to his own experiences, as they often did whenever he was reminded of his family or his upbringing. How different would his life had been if he’d had just one person who had accepted him for who he was? A single person in his corner, to tell him that he wasn’t broken, or wrong, or evil? Would he have made the same choices? Gone the same places? Met the same people? Would he have fallen in love?

Anthony appeared by his side once more, present in hand, and Zacharias squirmed until he was set down on two wobbly legs. Aziraphale smiled as he tore into the brightly colored wrapping paper with eager, sticky hands. Anthony seemed more at ease now, and when Aziraphale reached for his hand he didn’t hesitate to take it. 

As a boy, he’d been told that God had a plan for everyone, but it had been hard to reconcile the benevolent, loving deity he read about with all of the hatred and intolerance in the world. He’d been taught never to question God’s plans, but there had always been a small part of him that couldn’t help but wonder why the Almighty would allow any of His beloved children to suffer so. As he grew up, his view of the world had changed, but those words—spoken so resolutely and inarguably by nearly every member of his family—had stayed with him.

“What are you thinking about, angel?”

Anthony’s breath tickled his ear, and he angled his body both to keep their conversation private and to bring them closer. “Do you believe in fate?”

Anthony’s lips curled into a fond smile, and he lifted their joined hands to press a kiss into Aziraphale’s knuckles. “I didn’t...until you.”

Warmth suffused him from head to toe, and he had to tighten his grip to keep from flying away in a rush of euphoria. A thousand words passed between them in a moment, but none more important than the ones that tumbled from his lips.

“I love you.”

Anthony’s smile erupted into a beaming grin that lit up his entire face. A faint blush colored his cheeks and the tips of his ears, and he stammered adorably for a moment before returning the sentiment. It wasn’t the first time they’d said it (Anthony had made an entire production of the evening, complete with roses and dinner and slow dancing, before they’d confessed their feelings) but each time felt like the first time all over again. 

Aziraphale knew, in that moment, that everything had worked out just as it was supposed to. It was a truth he held fast to, one he chose to believe in with everything he had. All of his sorrow, the heartache, the loneliness, the hatred that had threatened to drown him; it had all been a part of a greater plan. As he glanced at the man standing beside him, then at his friends-turned-family gathered around him, he knew without a doubt that he would gladly endure millennia of hardships if it brought him to where he was now. And no matter how terrible the world seemed, no matter how awful, he would never again doubt God’s plan. 

It was, after all, ineffable.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Couldn't resist a sappy ending. I want to thank each person for taking the time to read my work, even if you didn't have the time or ability or inclination to leave a comment. Just knowing that it's out here for people to enjoy is amazing. This fandom has been so open and welcome and wonderful! 
> 
> I've been working on several other WIPs in the past few months, and one of them is just about ready to begin posting. Here's a little sneak preview:
> 
> **Powers That Be: A Reverse Omens AU:**
> 
> A demon and an angel hatch a plan to avert the Apocalypse by ensuring the Antichrist is equally influenced by both Heaven and Hell. A familiar story with a unique twist. For starters, the angel would much rather be up among his stars than stuck on Earth. His counterpart, a demon of indulgence, just wants to be left to his own devices. Unfortunately, the end of the world has other plans.
> 
> _“Let me get this straight.” Anton turned on his heel and peered down at the demon currently tucked in at the small round table inside the kitchen. “A Duke of Hell handed you the Antichrist and your first thought was, ‘Let me kidnap the son of Satan?’”_
> 
> _Azero sucked the sticky juices of his fourth nectarine from his fingers. “Wasn’t my first thought.”_


End file.
